


The Prodigal Son

by x_art



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: AU, M/M, episode-based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:59:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning of the beginning, AU-style (based on the episode, Familia)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prodigal Son

They took the beach two hours before dawn.

Rising out of the silver-dark water, quietly fighting the tide until they were on the sand, first Sam and Martinez, then Dickerson and Roscoe.

Intel had said the house was accessed easily from the public street that ran from north to south. Intel also said that the entry would be guarded by motion-sensors, cameras and men. The second access point—the ocean-side stairs—were just as vulnerable and also just as guarded. The third point was a door to the laundry room on the ground floor, tucked under the second-floor terrace. It was the only viable approach, but blocked by a natural barrier of volcanic rock that rose to the south. The family had used those rocks as protection against invaders for decades and had grown lax about security.

But first they had to get there.

Sam led the way to the base of the rocks and nodded. They dropped the gear and camouflaged it all with sand. He gazed up, found a good spot and began to climb.

It wasn’t the worse ascension he’d ever made, but neither was it the smoothest. He’d chosen the route himself, basing his decision on the info from their inside man and the high-res images taken the month before. Unfortunately, the photos had hid the fact that where the rock face wasn’t crumbling away from age, it was slippery with algae. Still, they were SEALs—surmounting difficult conditions was what they did.

When they got within a foot from the edge, he stopped and waited for the others to catch up. Martinez flashed him a smile. Dickerson and Roscoe were breathing too hard to do anything but nod. They were good soldier but they’d made a night of it, drinking until early in the morning—he’d already read them the riot act, but he’d do it again when the mission was over and they’d all had time to decompress.

He took a deep breath, gave them the signal and climbed to the edge of the terrace.

The house was a summer retreat, painted white with big windows that faced the ocean. The terrace was long and filled with the usual summer retreat things—potted plants, lounge chairs, cheesy statues. A white wooden fence that ran the length of each side, meant for show—it was too short to keep anyone out that truly wanted to get in. He snuck up behind a broad-leafed palm and hunkered down, waiting.

It was only a few minutes, but felt like a lifetime—first he heard footsteps, then something that sounded like a groan, then the guard himself, strolling in from the north side of the house. The man was dressed in a dark-colored suit, holding an automatic. He slapped his neck as he glanced around, muttered a curse, then wandered back the way he came.

Sam waited again—their contact had said there was only one guard between two and six and that it took between four and five minutes for him to circle the house. Sure enough, right on cue, the same guard returned, this time from the south. He looked around, yawned, then turned and left.

When the guard disappeared around the corner of the house, Sam gave it ten seconds, then nodded to Martinez; they all crept out of their hiding places. He used the rocks for leverage and was up and over the fence in a flash, padding along the terrace to the stairs, weapon drawn.

And that was when he noticed what he should have noticed the minute he’d surveyed the property. According to the schematic there was a stairway halfway down, leading to the first floor. There wasn’t. Or rather, there was, but the way was blocked by a jury-rigged obstruction.

He gestured for the team to stop, then went to take a look. Something had happened, maybe a natural occurrence or just shoddy craftsmanship, but whatever, the first four steps were broken and hanging by nails.

He calculated the chances of four men jumping to the fifth step without causing the whole thing to come crashing down and nixed that idea—it wouldn’t work. They would have to find another way in, once—he looked at his watch—the guard had completed his next rotation. He gestured a quick retreat.

The guard appeared just as Roscoe had taken cover and Sam held his breath as he followed the same pattern—glancing around without really looking, circling back the way he came.

This time, though, Sam was up as soon as the man cornered the building. He hurried across the terrace and over to the windows. The main window was a no-go, but to the right was a door. Short, almost like a window and, thankfully, opened a few inches. He hesitated, then pushed it open and stepped down into the dark room.

According to his source, the dining room faced the sea, the kitchen lay in the rear and a study and two bedrooms were on the other side of the wall.

His source had also said that it wasn’t just the lack of the guards that made the early morning hours the best time to complete the mission: their target would be asleep until five and it would be a simple matter of a quick jab of the needle—no muss, no fuss.

The source was wrong about that as well.

Because in the kitchen, his back to the dining room, stood a man. Dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, leaning sideways, elbow on the countertop, head on fist. He was doing something, an odd rhythmic gesture and it took Sam a second to realize what it was—the man was making tea. Dunking a tea bag up and down, sluggishly, as if he were in a trance.

Sam signaled; Martinez would cover him while Dickerson and Roscoe blocked the windows. He waited for their nods, then crept forward until he was about eight feet way, weapon up and aimed.

Later on, he wondered how close he would have gotten when a floorboard creaked underfoot. He froze. So did the man.

And then cocked his head, a motion so slight it was almost imperceptible; Sam had a few seconds to prepare and—

 _Damn,_ the man was quick. Moving, whipping around, stretching an arm for something on the countertop even as he was hurtling towards Sam. He lashed out as he came, kicking Martinez in the knee, jabbing at Sam viciously with a ten-inch knife. Martinez staggered, Sam jumped back, then swung the side of his hand down on the man’s vulnerable wrist. The man dropped the knife with a low curse then came at Sam again, shoving him, driving them both back to the refrigerator.

It should have been easy—the man was five inches shorter and maybe thirty pounds lighter, but like everything that had gone down, it wasn’t easy. The man was surprisingly strong and he fought hard, jabbing Sam in the kidneys, then changing his tactics, trying to slip free, lunging for a cupboard full of dishes and plates. Probably to make as much noise as possible but Sam had him now, slamming him down on his belly. He jumped on top and when the man took a deep breath, he was there as well, covering his mouth, trying not to groan when the man bit, hard.

“Enough.”

Sam jerked his head around and up. Then down again.

In the doorway stood a small figure. It was too dark to see much, just size and shape and then the person stepped into the dining room and turned on the light.

It was a woman. Maybe sixty or so, though it was hard to tell. She was wearing a blazer and trousers and a pair of round black glasses that made her look like a librarian. Or a large owl. By her feet was a backpack.

“You don’t need to worry about the guard,” she said conversationally, as if they were talking about the weather. “I’ve taken care of him for you.” She tilted her head towards the window, but didn’t look over at Dickerson and Roscoe.

The man below Sam growled and tried to buck him off. He answered by grabbing the base of the man’s skull and using both hands to hold him in a firm grip. Hhe asked over his shoulder, “I take it you’re our contact?”

“I am.”

“You’re American?” He couldn’t place her accent. He’d thought at first she was a Brit or Australian but now wasn’t sure.

“Sometimes.” She smiled; it wasn’t a completely reassuring smile.

The man moved again and Sam tightened his hold, his fingers slipping through the man’s hair. “What does that mean?”

“It means that who I am and _what_ I am, is none of your business.”

Sam frowned and repeated, “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means that we don’t have much time and you need to trust me. I haven’t led you astray yet, have I?”

“You didn’t say anything about the route being compromised. Or him.” He nodded to the man, now lying suspiciously lax in his arms.

“I didn’t?” She folded her hands before her. “I’m so sorry.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again, only then hearing the mild sarcasm. “So the op is busted,” he muttered, answering her sarcasm with anger.

“On the contrary; you have your man.”

“Our target was the head of the Comescu family. This isn’t,” he ground out, “the head of the Comescu family. She’s in her seventies, very female and goes by the name, _‘Alexa’._ ” It was starting to get weird, lying on the silent man, but he didn’t move.

“Alexa Comescu is this one’s grandmother. Meet, Gregor Comescu, the heir apparent.” The woman nodded gravely to the man.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Martinez move for the first time since the woman had appeared. He came forward a few steps and said suspiciously, “Gregor Comescu died on a rooftop in Los Angeles last year. It was in all the papers.”

“Yes, it was,” the woman said placidly.

Sam shifted. “So you’re telling me he was a decoy?”

She pondered his words, then said, “Let’s call it a subterfuge.”

“To fool the family’s enemies?”

She nodded. “Something like that.”

“And this is the _real_ Gregor Comescu?”

“It is. Please let him up.” She looked down at the man under Sam.

Who chose that moment to burst to life, giving Sam a head butt that made his ears ring. Sam scrambled for purchase but it was too late—the man twisted in his arms and grabbed his throat, thumb digging into his carotid artery.

And that was another weird thing because normally he’d be in the middle of his counterattack. Normally, he’d have already hit or punched. But he didn’t; he just looked down at the man, surprised.

He was older than Sam had supposed, somewhere in his late mid- to late-thirties. His hair was shaggy; not in the unkempt way but the way that said ‘money,’ not poverty. There was a faint scar that ran from his eyebrow to temple and even though the light was dim, his eyes shone blue.

“You are lying on my kidney.”

Sam took pride in his wide knowledge of accents; if he didn’t know better, he’d swear Comescu hailed from California, not Romania. “You’re expecting an apology?” he found himself saying.

The man didn’t smile, but he raised one eyebrow. As if something amused him.

Behind him, the woman sighed and repeated, “Let him up, Mr. Hanna.”

He didn’t move. “What the hell is going here? Who _are_ you?” he said to the woman.

“You can call me Gloria, and what is going on is just as I stated when I contacted Leon Vance. I need to deliver the head of the Comescu crime family to American soil.”

There was too much going on here—Comescu, the inside man who was really a woman who knew his name when she shouldn’t because they thought they were receiving their Intel from someone within the family itself, not a sometimes American. Even so, it was a bit ridiculous that all he could come up with was, “You know the director of NCIS?”

Comescu snorted and rolled his eyes. And then moved in a way that he shouldn’t move and Sam remembered that they were still plastered together. He pushed to his feet with a grunt and stood, back to the stove. He glanced at his men—Martinez had his worried face on, not that anyone would know it. Dickerson and Roscoe hadn’t moved from the windows.

Comescu rose and dusted himself off pointedly, saying, “You are heavy. You should give the weights a rest.” He glanced up at Sam from under his eyelashes.

 _‘And you should give that mouth a rest.’_

Comescu’s eyebrow raised again as if he knew what Sam was thinking. Sam shifted from foot to foot. What a bizarre night.

“Gentlemen,” Gloria said, making a gesture as if she were shooing chickens or small children. “Tempus fugit, as they say—we need to move.”

Sam shook his head, “Not until you tell me what’s really going on. Bringing him in,” he jerked his head towards Comescu, “is a lot different than bringing in a seventy-year old women.”

Comescu muttered something in Romanian. Gloria ignored him, answering evenly, “Director Vance knows the details. What I will tell you is that I’ve been working a long time in getting Gregor out of the country.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say that something is about to happen that will make that impossible. It must be now.”

Comescu was leaning against the refrigerator as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Sam tightened his lips. “It doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry to go anywhere.”

“Yes,” Gloria nodded, glancing down at her feet. “We’ve an ongoing conversation about his lifestyle and future.” She looked back up at Comescu though her words were for Sam, “However, he _will_ go and he’ll go _now_.” Her words were as sharp as her gaze, but there was something lurking behind her calm eyes that made Sam shift from foot to foot again.

He looked over at Martinez. He didn’t open his mouth although Sam knew what he was thinking—no matter what Gloria said, this could be a big mistake. He turned back around, giving it another try. “You can’t make a grown man do what he doesn’t want to do.”

Comescu said something else in Romanian, then, in English, “You might as well not even try. She will not listen to reason. If she says I am to go, I am to go.” He shot a sideways look at the woman that Sam couldn’t read.

“Okay,” Sam straightened up. “But we go out the way we came. Understood?”

“Completely,” Gloria agreed. “The street-side entrance is not safe, neither are the stairs to the beach, now that the tide is high.” She clasped her hands together. “You have what you need?”

Sam said reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Then take him. Now.”

“What about you? Won’t the Comescu family come after you for kidnapping the heir?”

“She will be fine,” Comescu said dryly. “She can handle herself. Besides,” his face changed and he smiled for the first time with what looked like rueful affection, “they are afraid of her.”

She gestured imperiously. Comescu pushed away from the refrigerator and knelt in front of her. They embraced, the woman patting him on the back, whispering in his ear. Then he drew away and stood, turning to Sam with his arms held wide, challenge in every line of his body. “I am all yours.”

***

After that it was almost fun. Gloria insisted on _‘Verisimilitude, in case any passersby are watching,’_ ordering Sam to gag and blindfold Comescu. Sam obeyed with pleasure, making both a little too tight. Oddly, Comescu, given the half hour before, was pliant under his hands as if he were enjoying the whole thing. Probably an attempt to goad Sam into more bad temper.

Or maybe he just got off on pain.

Gloria watched silently and when they were done, just as silently gave Dickerson Comescu’s backpack and waved to the window. They left, trooping out, one by one.

They’d planned on rigging Alexa Comescu into a sling and lowering her to the beach. Sam scrubbed that, instead choosing to tie a loop around Comescu’s torso and guide him over the edge. Hopefully, he’d hit his head a few times on the rock as he went down.

Martinez shook his head as if he knew what Sam was thinking and went down first, taking it upon himself to make sure Comescu didn’t hurt himself too badly, using his own body to shield him from the rocks. Sam followed silently, not offering to help.

By the time they got down, the tide was indeed much higher, about a meter from their cached supplies. They got the raft inflated then hustled it down to the water’s edge.

And this was another change—they’d planned on a hundred pound woman, not a hundred and sixty pound man.He untied Comescu’s gag and whispered, “Can you swim?”

Comescu cocked his head. “Like a fish.”

Sam rolled his eyes even though Comescu couldn’t see and guided him to the boat. “Get in.”

Comescu let himself be lowered onto the aluminum bench and Sam took his hand. “Here; grab here.” He wrapped Comescu’s fingers around the handhold. “Don’t let go.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just took off the blindfold?”

“No, it won’t. We don’t know who’s watching.” Which was true, as far as that went, but it was also not true—the chances of anyone noting the anomaly were remote. Besides, he'd remvoed the gag, hadn't he? He added a grudging, “I’ll take it off when we get out to sea.”

Comescu said nothing and that was okay by Sam—the sky was turning a lighter shade of gray and his internal clock was beginning to insist, _‘Hurry, hurry.’_

They drew the boat out to sea. As soon as the waves were waist high, they climbed in, Martinez at the bow, Dickerson and Roscoe on port and starboard. Sam took the stern, tucked up behind Comescu, and reached for his oar.

The tide was in full force now but the Black Sea was a contained body of water not an ocean and the waves were fairly mild—soon they were out past the danger zone and he relaxed.

The only bad part was when they turned south. They caught the edge of a stiff wave and it tipped them. Comescu gasped and tipped with it, hands grabbing at nothing; Sam lunged forward, hauling him back. But he pulled too hard and they both tumbled into the belly of the boat.

 _“Damnit.”_ The transom was digging into his back and Comescu’s head had smashed his nose, again. “Hold on.”

Comescu nodded and didn’t say anything.

He got them situated again, then took off Comescu’s blindfold. He should have done it earlier—he couldn’t think now why he hadn’t. “You okay?” he asked gruffly.

Comescu murmured, “Fine.”

Which was a lie because he’d started to shiver, shaking so hard, Sam could feel it through his wet suit.

“Boss?” Martinez called out. He was holding up his field jacket. Sam hesitated, then reached around Comescu and took it. “Here.” He tossed it in Comescu’s lap. “Put this on before you catch your death of cold.”

And even then, after all they’d been through, he expected something, _anything,_ but Comescu just pulled it on.

“You’re welcome,” Sam muttered, reaching for his oar.

Comescu ducked his head but wasn’t quick enough and Sam saw his expression—the bastard was smirking.

***

The sun was almost fully up when they reached the boat, twenty minutes behind schedule.

They docked the raft, then climbed aboard. Sam surreptitiously watched to make sure Comescu didn’t slip—his shivers had decreased but his lips were blue. Sam waited for him to ask for help, but he didn’t speak as he clambered up the ladder as if he’d been doing it all his life. Probably had. The Comescu family was very wealthy—the summer home in Constanta was the least of it.

“Where are we going?” Comescu said absently as he peered here and there, investigating the boat.

“Istanbul.”

“And then?”

“Overseas.” The engine kicked to life; Dickerson was at the helm, Martinez was hauling in the raft and Roscoe was at the stern, stowing the gear.

Comescu turned to Sam. “Overseas? I take it you mean the United States?”

“Maybe, and before you ask, any more than that is on a need to know basis.”

“And I don’t need to know?”

“No, you don’t.”

Comescu eyed him, then just shrugged. “What now?”

“You get below until we dock in Istanbul. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Sam jerked his head towards the cabin. “Come on.”

Comescu held up his hand, as if to a servant. “No, wait.” And before Sam could say anything, he went over to where Martinez was wrestling with the raft and said, “You helped me to the beach?”

Martinez nodded slowly.

Comescu touched the jacket he was wearing. “And this is your coat?”

Martinez nodded again. “It is.”

“Thank you.”

Martinez looked briefly at Sam as if to say, _‘What the fuck?’_ then muttered, “You’re welcome.”

It was another odd moment and Sam wondered if it was some ploy, meant to divide loyalties or just cause general confusion. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “You need to get below.”

He led the way down. The boat was small, a forty-foot cabin cruiser purchased because they thought they’d be bringing in a elderly woman who would need comfort as well as security. If he’d known what he was really getting, he would have bought a dinghy.

“Palatial,” came Comescu’s dry comment when they got below.

Sam stifled an aggravated snort and pointed to the portside bunk. “You sleep there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be up top. Making sure you get to Istanbul alive.”

Comescu turned and looked at him. And stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Okay.”

Sam put his hands on his hips. “Is that it?”

“Is what, what?”

He clenched his jaw. “You need to learn some manners.”

Comescu cocked his head, then said, “Ah. You’re upset that I haven’t thanked you.”

“You could say that.”

Comescu raised one eyebrow. “For kidnapping me and forcing me to freeze to death in a raft that is smaller than my bath tub?”

Sam threw his hands up and turned to the stairs. “You know what? Forget it.”

When he got on deck, he took a moment to calm his mind. He stared out at the water, the sky, reminding himself that there was no point in getting angry—they had another twenty-two hours of babysitting and then they’d be done. Just another twenty-two hours.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Dickerson had started a pot of coffee and it smelled beyond good. All he wanted was to grab a cup and watch the sea. But that would have to wait—he was still on the job and had things to do.

“Everything okay, sir?” Dickerson asked when he ducked into the cockpit.

“Peachy. Can you give me a minute?”

Dickerson looked over his shoulder, but only said, “Sure; I’ve got her on auto-pilot. I’ll go keep Roscoe company.”

Sam waited until he was gone, then reached for the comm kit and dug out the satellite phone. He was under instructions not to call unless it was an emergency; he figured the confirmation of the passenger switch was emergency enough. And even if it wasn’t, so what?

Still, as the phone rang, he had a brief moment of, _‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’_ and then the call went through.

“Lieutenant Hanna. Is anything wrong?”

Director Vance’s voice was unruffled, even though it was just past one. “We’re thirteen minutes behind schedule but other than that, the op went as planned.” Sort of.

“And Comescu?”

Sam shrugged, his vacillating anger cresting again. “Why didn’t you tell me we were picking up the grandson and not Alexa Comescu?”

“Because, Lieutenant Hanna, I didn’t know. Not until a few hours ago. By then it was too late. Besides…”

Vance hesitated too long and Sam muttered, “Besides _what,_ Director?” It was rude, bordering on insolent, but he didn’t like Vance much and didn’t really care who knew it.

“Besides,” Vance said pointedly, “something is about to happen that would give the Comescu family untold power and we thought it in our best interests to try to stop it.”

“That’s what that woman, Gloria, said. What is it?”

Vance hesitated again, then said flatly, “Tomorrow, Gregor Comescu was to leave for Mexico where he was to secretly wed Theresa Stankovic, daughter of Andrei Stankovic.”

“You mean—” Sam gestured.

“Yes, _that_ Andrei Stankovic.”

Sam nodded. Stankovic wasn’t a big fish, but big enough; running guns and laundering money were just a few of his specialties. “You said ‘untold wealth.’ Something as simple as a wedding would make that happen?”

“In a word, yes. They were pledged since birth; the two fathers have already begun consolidating their interests but the marriage would have cemented the relationship.”

“And now?”

“Now, Stankovic will think Comescu got cold feet, Alexa Comescu will think this is just another of her grandson’s hair-brained stunts. With the wedding on hold, we’ll have time to weaken the Stankovic-Comescu union.”

“And what about Gloria? Where does she fit in with all this?”

“She’s none of your concern at the moment. But, she’s impressed with you.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me so when she called an hour ago to tell me she’d pulled one over on me.”

Vance’s tone was filled with humor and Sam wanted to grind his teeth. He’d been played and that was something he hated. “And Comescu?”

“He wasn’t too eager to be married. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“That’s not what I meant, Director. What’s going to happen to him?”

“We’ll keep him sequestered. He’s a valuable resource, whether he wants to cooperate or not.”

Sam shrugged again, this time trying to dislodge the tension in his neck.

“Are we done, Lieutenant Hanna?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll see you when you land.”

Vance hung up without saying goodbye and Sam stood there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he dialed another number learned by heart before he could stop himself. Unlike Vance, she answered on the first ring.

“Is there any trouble?”

“No, we’re fine.”

“And Gregor?”

“Asleep in the cabin.”

“Don’t expect that for any length of time. He catnaps more than sleeps. And he doesn’t like to be cooped up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do.” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “What troubles you, Mr. Hanna?”

“I don’t like people using other people, Gloria.”

“And you think I’m using Gregor?”

“Aren’t you?”

She sighed heavily. “What I’m doing, Mr. Hanna, is attempting to wrest my godson from the labyrinth that is the Comescu crime family.”

He frowned at the wheel without really seeing it. Godson. No wonder she and Comescu seemed close.“So you’re betraying your own family?”

“My relationship to the Comescus is complicated.”

“Which means, yes.”

“No, it means it’s complicated. And none of your business.”

“Okay,” he conceded with a nod then tried a different tactic. “Back at the house, you said you’d been working on this a long time.”

“Yes, I have.”

“What happened?” He didn’t expect her to answer and was surprised when she did.

“I tried when he was a baby, but the plan went awry. I tried again when he turned fifteen, but he himself unwittingly botched that by running off to Paris to visit his sister.”

“What about his parents?”

“Let’s just say they had differing opinions on his future, enough that his mother is now out of the picture. As is his sister.”

Her tone hadn’t changed but he thought he heard a tinge of heaviness and for the first time he felt a little sympathy for her situation. But not enough not to mutter, “And if I ask you what happened to her, will you tell me?”

“No.” And then, before he could speak, she said briskly, “Mr. Hanna? Do you know why you were chosen for this mission? _Who_ chose you?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me it was you?” he muttered flippantly.

“It was,” she said simply. “I’ve been watching you for a long time. I liked what I saw.”

“That’s stalking.” And more than a little creepy.

“No, that’s keeping my options open.”

“Does Director Vance know this?”

“He’s the one that pointed me in your direction.”

He didn’t know what to say. His dealings with NCIS had been limited, to say the least.

She chuckled at his silence. “I see I’ve caught you by surprise, but never mind that for now. All you need to know is that I’ve a proposal for you; my godson needs someone like you.”

He frowned at his reflection in the windshield. “What do you mean?”

“You excel at a job that is difficult at the best of times. Your teammates look up to you, your commanders respect you. But more important than that, you have a strong sense of self. My godson, on the other hand, has floated from one thing to the next. He doesn’t have any friends, no true connections. He doesn’t even have a real home, just a series of flats. With you, he’d have someone to support him when he needs it, to anchor him when he needs _that.”_

“You’re making this sound like a partnership.” Or a marriage.

“I’m hoping for that, yes.”

He shook his head; his ghost self did the same. “This is a one time deal, Gloria. We’re taking him to Istanbul, then to D.C. And then he’s on his own.”

“I see.”

He tightened his lips at her dry tone. “And I’ll return to my unit.”

“Very well.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then sighed. “Look, he doesn’t even like me, so your ‘proposal,’ whatever that is, won’t work.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said. You’ll inform me when you’re on the plane to D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Hanna,” she said, finally giving him his rank.

“You’re welcome.”

She hung up and he gazed at the phone until the screen went dark. Then he erased the memory card and put the phone away. He poured a cup of coffee and went out on deck.

He found Martinez and Dickerson, leaning against the rail, talking softly.

“Everything okay?” Martinez said.

“Yeah.”

Dickerson jerked his head to the companionway. “How’s it going down there?”

“Don’t ask.”

“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“You got that right.”

Martinez straightened up. “Did he really kill those men in Athens?”

Sam shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Dickerson brushed by Sam on his way to the cockpit, then said over his shoulder, “I heard he was the one behind that bombing in Budapest—the one in the subway?” He looked back at Sam. “He doesn’t look like a mass murderer.”

 _‘What does a mass murderer look like?’_ Sam wanted to answer. But he didn’t. He just went to the rail and took a sip of coffee.

Roscoe was hunkered down at the stern, rifle cradled in his arms. They nodded at each other.

Sam stood there for a moment, coffee cup in hand. The sun was well and truly up and he still had time to catch a few winks. Martinez was good for another hour and Dickerson and Roscoe needed a little payback for the night before. So he could get some sleep and rest up for the trip to come.

Instead, he went below, telling himself he needed to check on their guest and make sure he wasn’t breaking into anything or stealing everything in sight.

Comescu wasn’t breaking into or stealing anything—he was asleep.

He’d flipped the pillow around so he was facing the companionway and was curled in a neat ball, arms about his chest. He’d taken off Martinez’ jacket—it was hanging on the hook beside the bunk.

Sam walked closer and stared down. Dickerson was right—he didn’t look like a mass murderer—he looked innocent and harmless, like a kid who’d been up all day and was tuckered out.

“Hello.”

Sam didn’t jump or start at Comescu’s soft greeting. He just said evenly, “Do you want some coffee?”

Comescu opened his eyes. “No, I am fine.”

Comescu’s accent faltered and for the first time Sam could hear the soft slur of non-English consonants and vowels. He hesitated, then muttered, “Sure you are.” He sat the cup down on the tiny galley table and reached up in the overhead bin. He drew out a blanket and tossed it at Comescu. “Here. So you don’t freeze to death.” Almost the same words as before and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he meant them this time.

Comescu touched the blanket and stared at it as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Finally, he cocked his head and looked up. The pale light through the porthole caught his eyes, making them gleam like blue glass. “What is your name? What do I call you?”

A question so unexpected that Sam found himself saying, “Sam. My name is Sam.”

“Sam,” Comescu repeated. And then he smiled, a real smile with no hidden malice, no subterfuge. “Thank you. Sam.”

Sam swallowed back the unexpected anger—he didn’t want to be friends with this man, didn’t want anything from him but obedience until they’d landed in D.C. Then, he could be on his way to the next mission and forget about this night, forget about Gloria and her strange offer.

He nodded shortly and hurried up the companionway, too aware of Comescu’s eyes on his back the entire time.

He relieved Roscoe with a jerk of his head—there was no way he’d sleep now and he might as well not try, then took position at the stern, staring out at boat’s wake, watching the bubbles rise and disappear.

What would it be like, being used as a tool to cement treaties and power? Never having a real life of one’s own, only having value as a _thing_? Even with all that money and privilege, it would be hell.

Sam wrapped his arms around his chest, resolutely putting Comescu’s smile from his mind as he wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

 

 

 _fin._


End file.
